Lucimia chose a table that looked precisely geared, and slid onto the empty chair beside them like a shadow seeking shelter.
She picked that table because these adventurers didn’t feel low-tier; street-scum wear rust, while high-tier carry calm, teamwork, and maps like stars.
Four sat at the table—one man, three women—like four points on a compass resting by a hearth.
Lucimia let her gaze land on the man first, emotion rising like a ripple before thought followed.
He was tall, at least six-two, sinew stacked like corded rope, a giant shield riding his back like a stone cliff.
The shield’s rim was half blunt, half blade, a moon that was both dull rock and cold silver.
His short hair was deep blue, like night water; scars scored his face and shoulder like dry lightning.
He drank without a word, eyes sweeping the room like hawks, steady and watchful as a winter pine.
That quiet gravity screamed high-level to Lucimia, a mountain that knew the wind.
Low-level adventurers wobble like loose carts—sure, a rare wolf in fool’s clothing exists—but odds are thin, not worth chasing.
She murmured inside, thoughts like ink: that shield isn’t ordinary, custom work; runes etched on it; it can block and bite.
Against monsters it should shine like iron; only a Dark Deity would shrug it off.
Of the three women, two broadcast roles: a classic mage in robes like flowing mist, and an archer in denim like a taut bowstring.
Each carried her tool, a staff like a rooted tree, a longbow like a crescent branch.
The last woman gave no clue, dressed for motion like wind on stone, carrying nothing but intent.
What’s her job—cook, pre-battle mind, or the team’s quiet brain, a candle behind paper?
One thing snagged Lucimia’s attention like a burr: all his teammates were women; was this guy building a harem?
Forget the noise, she told herself; business first, like a blade to whetstone.
Elbow on the table, chin in hand, she weighed how to harvest information, thought pooling like rain in a basin.
Two paths lay open: the rough one—use Devouring to take their memories, then trigger Reversion like rewinding smoke.
This squad’s tier wasn’t low; hunting big beasts needs fat intel, and Bevi becomes a lighthouse when storms brew.
So in theory, their heads held routes to Bevi, like maps folded under the tongue.
The second path: tail them like a shadow, wait till they prep for a hunt, and follow their net toward Bevi.
She didn’t hesitate; urgency pressed like a drum; she chose the first.
Using Authority Power thickens pollution like soot, but it’s only the Empire’s air; finish the Empire’s mess, then cut back on Devouring.
She had other tools: Disguise, Exemption, Severing cut, and Soul—four Authority Power–grade abilities, plus several odd tricks like stray sparks.
She wondered, heart flicking like a moth: how does Soul work—summon the dead, then tuck a spirit into a spare body?
Or can it yank a living soul out, like a thread from fabric?
A sudden thought crackled like lightning: this Authority Power came from Olivya; is Olivya alive because she uses the Soul Authority Power?
Do my Authority Powers share with past Devouring Authority holders, or are they mine alone like locked chests?
If they aren’t shared, can I pull Olivya’s soul free; her soul seems to nest inside me like a hidden bird.
Lucimia frowned, a crease like a blade mark, then decided in seconds—just do it.
She closed her eyes, feeling the inner world swell like a tide, and the next heartbeat dropped her into elsewhere.
Her mind cleared like frost on glass; she opened her eyes to a world overhauled, chaos framing the guild’s outline like fog around roofs.
The table’s shape lingered like a sketch; people blurred into souls, each blank-faced, half-floating like pale ghosts.
And she felt it—one finger could move them, control settling like reins on skittish horses.
So scary, she thought, a chill sliding like ice under skin.
She wanted to see her own soul, so she summoned a Fuzzy Orb, parked it before her like a lantern.
Sight linked, and she froze like a deer; her soul looked wrong, a girl’s shadow wrapped in masses of ink.
Twisted eyes glinted like broken glass; tentacles writhed like black vines; her figure sliced into segments, then knit and flickered.
It was nightmare ugly, a storm that kept tearing and mending.
Lucimia quietly recalled the Fuzzy Orb, closing the lantern like a lid.
Looks like pollution stains even the soul, she told herself, the words dropping like ash.
She tested the Soul Authority Power, trying commands like bring Olivya’s soul before me, but the air stayed still as stone.
Maybe shared Authority Power blocks it, she guessed; Olivya still seems to wield Devouring Authority, so keeping other Authority Powers fits.
But there was a bright scrap amid that dark news: she didn’t need Devouring to get memories.
She could speak to souls and have them spill what they know, like wells offering water.
A medium, she mused, interest blinking like stars.
She nudged the blue-haired man’s soul with a thought; the blank ghost drifted to her like a leaf on current.
Watching him obey pricked her heart like a pin; interesting, she murmured.
She addressed the soul: tell me where Bevi is, and everything you know about him.
The pale soul rippled like a pond, and then—
Nothing followed; the wave died, and it stared at her, blank as winter stone.
Huh? Why no words, she thought, confusion fanning like moth wings.
Her brief excitement felt doused like a bucket of cold water.
Aren’t mediums supposed to peel secrets like bark; in front of a medium, isn’t silence supposed to break?
Why won’t he tell me?
